2017. Westwood Wine. Sonoma Valley. Legend, Proprietary Blend.

Lost in the transaction and transference from sipper to wine and back.  Like something when I first started getting into wine as I told my friend Drew—Westwood Wine Management–yesterday, tasting the wine with him by connection Zoom’d…  We sipped and I was catapulted back to why my focus was, is, Bordeaux-know.  Everything from the feel and the intention and dimension, ascension of the character’s arc and general aptitude in translating vineyard and vintage.  I’m not concerned with percentages although some consumers will boast they are after reading Wikipedia or some how-to wine-do.. but by far, I’m starting in stars in these sips… my back patio, looking at sky following a 90 degree day.  This bottle and is frenetic fits tell one loving wine to keep loving, to keep finding what they find, Bordeaux or no… the bottle encourages curiosity, and a curvaceous caress of the vineyards, the rows, all five Bordeaux owed go’s.  Not to say all five are present, but it reminds me a Bordeaux searcher for what I’m searching.

After done with bottle and collect my notes.  Another wine, more than most others, reminding me why wine is not just a simple list of descriptions over-recited and incited.  I’m delighted in the night’s write and the one-bottle flight of Westwood’s crown gem.  I sip again, and the glass gone. I’m left thinking… she has me walking back and forth in the kitchen dazed in perceptive cage, wishing I could have just one more verse, stanza, line, anything.  She still to me speak, in calm LoFi rhymes.  Bob my head, like she’s at a mic to me in recite.  Couple with cosmic dimension quelling any momentary apprehension… wine isn’t pretension, she reminds and binds with her unspoken signs and phenolic chimes.   Call Drew, order more.  Not concerned with the writer’s budget, or how quick I’ll she sip.  In a knotted spot, lovingly, sudden poetic plea.

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